


The Pursuit Of Happiness

by crimson_noir



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aromantic War, Everyone ships Aziraphale/Crowley, F/F, F/M, Gen, People struggling with Immortality, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 09:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimson_noir/pseuds/crimson_noir
Summary: War goes around a lot, and she doesn't know why. Death talks to her in all caps about sexuality when he isn’t busy trying to fuck the bloodlust out of her. Julius Caesar wasn’t as good in bed or in battle as they said he was. Famine and Pollution are questioning themselves. Aziraphale and Crowley are dumbasses.OR 5 Times War Leaves The Conversation, and 1 Time She Doesn’t.





	The Pursuit Of Happiness

1.

War ends up in bars more often than not. People would say she’s a lush, but then again, they can’t. She’s killed for less. But the fact of the matter is that she doesn’t have anything to do with her endless life other than start a fight and watch it all snowball from there. She sips at her absinthe and misses drug addicts. Doesn’t _miss_ them, really, they’re so very easy to find, but she feels nostalgic for the winding, grimy lanes at the back of rich, rich cities. Those lanes still exist, but she hasn’t been to one in ages. Nah, not ages, that’s hyperbole. Just decades.

She looks around the bar, snapping out of looking down a glass needle years ago, Pollution at her side. (The Horsemen get bored a lot, when they aren’t doing interesting things like causing and heralding the Very End of The World As You Know It.) It's not a bad place, wood accents and all. She’s sitting at a booth in the back, sipping a glass full of the drink that humans can’t handle mere drops of. Life would be so _boring_ as a human. She’d kill herself in an hour. Probably less. It’s taken less than that to collapse empires, so definitely less. In human form, War would be like TNT doused in kerosene—she’d go up quickly, with a blinding flash and too much noise.

She’d be hot, too.

“Hey,” someone says, and War doesn’t turn, because she knows who it is. Knows the power surging around her almost as well as she knows her own. Famine. She doesn’t say anything.

“I talked to Pollution about meeting up, but he’s at the Amazon. Air pollution, you know. Never fails to get him all turned on.”

“I know, I’ve seen it,” she answers, lights a cigarette, blows the smoke into the air, wills it to blow right into Famine’s smirk. It does.

“We’re an incestuous little group, aren’t we?”

“Gotta live forever somehow, slim-o.” She toys with the idea of stroking a thumb along his lower lip, watching his mouth fall open and eyes fill with greed, like they always do. Slow sex in the Jacuzzi, ending up at some five-star hotel where everyone knows him and wants to know her, like they always do. Just keeping it plain and simple and destructive, like they always do. They’re the Four Horsemen of The Apocalypse, after all. It’s expected. Even God up on Her celestial throne has stopped trying to glare them into submission.

But she doesn’t do it. Doesn’t do anything.

“We can meet at that diner he likes some year,” Famine says, once he’s sure she isn’t going to do anything. She thinks he always knew it, in the back of his conniving, sneaky mind. She doesn’t mind. He doesn’t know her by this little instance. No one can pin her down by just one happening. God knows, the humans have tried, with their peace meets and their UN resolutions and their _alliances_, but have they ever really succeeded? War might get the Third World War started, if she feels like it, if she’s bored enough. Oh, maybe get up to DEFCON One this time—it’ll power her fantasies for a few months. Enough for some good nights. She does get woefully little pleasure (that’s such a lie).

“You’re talking awfully less tonight,” he observes, “Plotting?”

“You know me so well,” she drawls, “also, just very bored.”

“You need a someone.”

“You have a someone, Dr. Sable?”

Her calling him by his pseudonym makes him flinch. If she didn’t know him, she’d think he was soft, but this is him being arrogant. He just doesn’t want to be seen as the mere doctor the humans know him as, fit only for their slimming purposes, a man to run to after a bit too many doughnuts.

“No, but that’s what all the films say. _All_ of them can’t be wrong.”

Oh no, he is soft.

“Those are stories, Famine. How are you believing in them, now? Some little thin girl catch your eye? Some boy whose ribs you can see under his thin t-shirt? You know they are going to die.”

“Nothing like that, War. It’s just that one catches oneself wondering,” he grins, and it seems painted, wrong. He drinks his scotch with a wince, and she knows it’s not because of the alcohol, because none of this swill tastes strong to any immortal with any self-respect. She could drink this entire bar, and then a few more, and not feel a thing. So can he. In fact, they’ve had some rather spectacular pub crawls during the Prohibition. Forbidden fruit does taste sweeter, and wouldn’t Eve know?

“You fucking fool,” she says darkly. “You fucking fool. How dare you wonder about something that isn’t supposed to be? You know that’s what killed Pestilence, not Alexander bloody Fleming.”

“They just…”

War, as always, is irked at the very mention of her old friend Pestilence. “They just went and fell in love with someone who had the Black Plague. And it affected their performance forever after. So much so that we could get these humans making their goddamn vaccinations. Do you think that would’ve happened if they’d just kept them scared? Hell, they could’ve just kept little streams of the Plague going on for decades, maybe re-introduce scarlet fever. People Up and Down There would’ve been spectacularly happy. What was their last try? Fucking Ebola.”

So stupid of them. Out of mere irritation, War had immediately started The Third Indochina War, but she hadn’t been particularly satisfied with that, either.

“Well, that’s an outburst,” Famine smirks, raising his eyebrows pointedly, humor (or something close to it) restored, “Did you love them?”

“I am known for my outbursts,” she agrees. Looks down at the wooden table. “I thought so, at one point.”

“Was it your kinda love, or something different? Something…better?”

She rolls her neck on her shoulders, wanting to feel things crack. Nothing does. She wishes she could say something other than what she’s going to.

“You know the answer, old friend. My kinda love. Lust, mostly. A stronger lust, but still lust. Nothing like those rom-coms that you were talking about.”

“Hey, Eros and Psyche are OTP!”

She just stares at him.

“Fine, don’t mention the Aphrodite,” he sulks, “and it’s perfect.”

“Then it’s not Eros and Psyche,” she says simply. Screw perception, she’s read all this stuff. She’s not a total dumbass. She had a very slow period somewhere when the Earth was first created, and the only people were the amazingly horny Adam and Eve. She read stuff then, and she reads stuff now, when she’s going from place to place, sitting in airport lounges. As much fun it is to break up a honeymoon, you can’t do that for five hours of waiting. The couples run out in like twenty minutes. She finishes her glass of alcohol with a sigh, ruffles Famine’s hair, stands up. He looks at her, face inscrutable, eyes very brown. She feels a tug deep in her stomach, like he’s her younger brother or something. She shakes the emotion away resolutely.

“What’re you gonna do, pretty?”

“Hook up. And then, for dessert, the Taliban is somewhere around here, isn’t it?”

2.

Ugh, ancient Rome. Ugh, sunlight. Ugh, dresses. Ugh, blunt swords. Ugh, low-rate soldiers.

Ooh, Julius Caesar. Muscles. A bit short, a bit bald, but a great tactician. He’ll do.

There is dust everywhere, this is a bloody desert, but the Emperor’s private tent has to be okay. She has her red hair up in a very nice hairdo, and she’s practically glowing against some of the other deadbeat women over here. She resists the urge to audibly sniff. But she would be very okay with some of these ladies…no, mind on the mission. The mission is to get to Caesar’s very nice tent, with its very nice slaves, and its very nice war maps. The mission is also to maybe convince him to try and take over some of the land in the north, since it’s cooler there, and she needs a good fight like that guy over there needs water. Dehydration, my God, what a boring way to go. He’s going to die in less than an hour or something—Death would know the specifics. 

She stalks through the camp like she’s God herself, and she might be. These dudes worship War way more than they do Her Peaceful Heavenliness, anyway. No one stands or moves in her seven-meter radius, which is pretty much the usual. Her dress is all flowy and impractical, but it is also the red of human blood (she does her dyes herself), and her skin is pale and all the ornaments she wears, while minimal, are pure gold. (She hates bronze and other poor things.) All of it combines to make her look pretty damn awesome. She’d do herself if she could.

There are people standing at Caesar’s tent, little toy soldiers with their pretty bronze armor. When she blinks, she has a vision of them dead, chests caved in and armor strewn and gashed by better swords. The crow sits on one of their ruined chests and caws at her, Death’s little messenger. She resists the urge to scowl at it and takes herself back to the present. The boys, barely twenty-three, are looking at her wide-eyed, but have gotten their wits together enough to put their spears over the tent entrance, a clanging sound echoing as they meet. Young fools. Obedient fools. Soldiers. She rolls her eyes even as she allows herself a smile. Time for the theatrics, then. She doesn’t want to seduce. Doesn’t want to this without a noise. She wants the Roman Empire’s dictator to want her. To want her enough that he’ll do anything for her, even though she’ll be long gone when he finally does so.

War is like a vampire—the woman and the state she causes, both. Your actions invite them into your threshold, and then they sink their fangs into your little defenseless neck.

She lets her eyes flash back to their original orange color, the color of fire that devours millions and burns up Senates and Capitols. The color of their deaths. There is a reason War is so colorful and Death is all black. She lets her smile stretch wider, inhuman, the smile of corpses whose faces have been cut up, stretching from ear to ear, bloody and gory and totally sexy. She doesn’t have to do it all before they collapse with an almighty clatter. Ugh, armors. So ungainly. So impractical. Worse than dresses sometimes, but there is a certain thrill about wearing them. It’s overrated, though, because it never lasts very long. Just like Caesar, she suspects.

(She had suspected correctly, she thinks, after the event is done, he covering up his modesty with a sheet as she lies there, naked as the day she was never born, it’s like he’d never been fucked right)

“Praetor,” she husks out, assets on full, mind-blowing display, knowing he’s not just Praetor anymore, and that he’ll be irritated that she called him that, and then. And then she gets a glorious idea. It’s a masterpiece. Historians will be talking about it for years to come. For centuries.

“Dictator,” he corrects, still breathless, _weakling_, she thinks disdainfully. His correction is not as stern as she’d thought it must be. Too bad.

“I’ve been away for a long time, apologies,” she says mock-ruefully, “it has been my greatest dream to meet you. For a long time.”

He puffs up like an overblown peacock and she fights the urge to sigh. Males. She would’ve been better off with one of the girls she was thinking about. Harmless bit of fun. The other would maybe even fall in love with her and do something dramatic like slit her wrists when War eventually left. That could’ve been nice, but this idea, the things this idea was going to do, full-blown revolution…well worth this preening of the dictator’s.

“Your lady wife, Calpurnia,” she continues, “must miss you. Must love you. You must go back to Rome. March approaches, and the Senate wishes you back. Safe to rule. So does Brutus, I have heard.”

_Of course Brutus does,_ she doesn’t add, _of course the Senate misses the one who they’re going to stab in the back_.

“And you don’t? Love me?”

What. Oh God, she hates egos. Just for that, this little bitch is going to get stabbed more than once.

“Not as she does,” War fumbles (it isn’t noticeable, but trust her, she does), “not as your wife does, I’m sure. And I am promised to another. Have been for eons.”

“I would have you killed,” the man breathes, “for breaking your troth vows. But you are…”

Unkillable. Stronger than you. The one who damned you. War.

“Beautiful.”

Oh, _hell and damnation_. If this one falls in love with her, she is not going to be responsible for her actions. Sorry, Brutus and assorted lackies: I was more annoyed.

“Calpurnia and I fail to love each other. We used to, I know, but I was distant. Not as I should be. The vows I took were lies. Sometimes I think I deserve to die unknown, but I am Caesar. Not loving a woman is hardly a sin. I have freed the world, and this cannot, is not a shortcoming. I am good to all.”

No, your government is planning to kill you. Like, right now. And I didn’t even have to tell them to do it, they were already doing so. I just gave them…confidence. And here you are, telling me about your love troubles. Get over it, pussy.

“I wish I could make it better. Do you love your betrothed?”

“No,” she says, because what is the point of it all, he’s going to get stabbed whether she says yes or no, and she’s going to have her revolution whether she says yes or no, everyone’s happy, and maybe she should give this genuinely good tactician some truths before she goes (people Up There call this a Blessing, but she doesn’t care; what is the point of him conquering some more along the way with her blessing if he’s going to die anyway), “I do not think love is an actuality, dictator.”

There he is: doomed by War, blessed by War. What an interesting oxymoron.

“I beg to differ. I shall go to Rome. I shall also reconvene the—”

_Your funeral, literally_, she thinks as she watches him dress before she disappears.

3.

“All I am, is a man, I want the world in my hand.”

War sighs, long and loud. She doesn’t try to say anything. Pollution is on a roll today, she can see it, even though she just saw him. The sky on the right has factory fumes choking it. She smiles.

“I hate the beach, yet here I stand, in California with my toes in the sand.”

“Goddamn it, Pollution,” she interrupts, unable to wait any longer, “I meet you after decades and you decide to quote me lines from a song?”

“It’s not a bad song, sweetheart.”

“It’s inaccurate,” she points out, “You are not a man, and you most assuredly do not want the world in your hand, and you do not hate the very polluted beach at all.”

“But my toes are in the sand,” says the moron.

“You moron,” she tells him.

“You love me,” he tells her.

“You’re full of inaccuracies today, monsieur.”

“Wanna show me the better part of that French?” He leers at her. She shoves his shoulder.

“Could’ve done better,” she sighs.

“Yeah, we all could’ve,” he replies, “but I’m lazy, so…” He shrugs, and his eyes look like oil slick, spreading over water like an ink blot. But shinier.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she cuts in, “what is all this shit about all of you second-guessing your lives?”

“This is not really a life, signori, and I must remind you that that drink with Famine was more than twenty years ago.”

“How?”

“I know what you’re thinking if I put my mind to it,” he explains, “where goes War, there goes the filth.”

“What the fuck ever,” she barrels on, aggressively dismissive, “don’t care. Why is this not a life? How could we have done better? We were built for this, meant to take pleasure in it. Hell, I do take pleasure in it. Just went through a bar brawl last night. Small, but I had around nine people in my bed in the morning. Nine people and a corpse. It keeps me alive. Keeps me innovating.”

Why is everyone so concerned with love, and not doing what their jobs are? Even most humans, searching for ‘the One.’ When will they get that life isn’t a fairytale? Pollution waves his hands in an overexaggerated gesture. He seems to melt into the surroundings, greasy and disgusting. He smells, too, but he’s kept it light for her. She appreciates it. She thinks back to when she fucked him. She must’ve been desperate. Or crazy. God, even Pollution seems like a brother now. Her last meeting with Famine really did something to her. She wants scotch, and thank God she hasn’t suddenly stopped drinking, otherwise she’d swear she was turning into an angel, wings and all. Speaking of angels…

“Hey,” she says, knowing she’s changing the subject pretty obviously, “how’re our resident gay trendsetters?”

“Madly in love,” answers Pollution, deadpan. “And when I say maddeningly, I mean maddeningly. I’d rather take the tortures of sweet, sweet Samael than spend a day with that couple.”

“Hot, though, you gotta agree.”

He ignores her, even though she’ll bet a few billion tanks on the fact that he thought so, too. “They’re so completely in love, dear God, how are they not married yet?”

“They aren’t?” War’s surprised. And you don’t often surprise War.

“Yeah, it’s been ages, literal ages, you know this has been going on since the Garden.”

“They only officially got together five years ago. On the third anniversary of the Anti-Christ putting the world back to rights.”

“Five years is a long time,” Pollution protests, “humans say they’ll clean my baby in five years.”

“Your baby?”

“The Great Garbage Patch, remember?”

“No, no wars over it. And five years isn’t a large bracket of time for me,” she grins, “some wars just drag on and on and on till you kill Achilles’ husband.” She wonders why they always seem to talk Greek myths, her and the Horsemen. Is it a thing? She thinks it’s a thing.

“And then others call him his platonic friend a fuck-ton of years later. Bloody historians. They were boyfriends, if not husbands, it was adorable.”

“Yeah, I know, I was there.”

“But going back to the topic, I thought they just hadn’t invited me but turns out that neither Anthony Fucking Crowley nor Adorable Marshmallow Aziraphale managed to get down on their knees for anything except the obvious.”

There it is. She knew Pollution wouldn’t be able to resist that one. Dirty minds, both (humans would probably call them best friends, but she doesn’t think so, they’re colleagues) of them. Actually, all of the Horsemen are pretty flexible about the carnal pleasures of the flesh. The only thing that hasn’t happened is an orgy between all four of them, because…no. Just no. Too bloody weird.

“We are too fucking invested in this ship,” she observes.

“Eh,” says Pollution, just like she hoped he would, “we have a lot of time to waste. Probably forever, now that all that happened. As long as the Anti-Christ and his progeny live…no apocalypse, I’m sorry.”

“No riding down some desert highway looking cool with our matching motorcycles,” she says sadly.

“Well, we could always do that, normally…there are a lot of roads in the world.”

She gapes at him. No, not this. Not again.

“The whole damn point of us is to ride down heralding the Apocalypse. The whole point, Pollution. We are not going to call the Four bloody Horsemen for _fun_,” she snarls, feeling tired and is this how dead people feel? “We are not going to do human, mundane things like falling in love or having fun, for fuck’s sake, because then people will stop being afraid of us. We will fade. What do you want, fucking cleanliness? People being mentally alright? Immortality? _Peace_?”

She spits blood onto the sand. It bores a little hole down into hell, she’s sure. She can see the flames.

Pollution looks like he pities her. Her, the gall. His face is all scrunched up in a little frown that she just knows is pity, and his head is cocked to the right (pus flows out of his ear, and she rolls her eyes through her indignation).

“There a lot of roads in the world, War.”

Oh, she is furious. She’s going to kill him with her own hands and see if she doesn’t win. But he just keeps speaking, like he has a choice.

“Lots of things to like. Lots of feelings to feel. Lots of people to…”

She clenches her fists, turns her flaming eyes (her eyelashes have burnt off) up to the summer sky.

“Love.”

She doesn’t look at him. She is War and this is not her ballpark. By all rights, it shouldn’t be his, either. It probably isn’t, the way he’s speaking, she thinks bitterly, like love cures. She knows it doesn’t.

“It’s gonna get boring real soon, babe. If you don’t try to do something, anything else. You’re going to grow old, and bitter, and remember what happened to Pestilence?”

The wind’s been knocked out of her. That is her argument! And he turned it around, the brat, made it completely different and unrecognizable and useless. He polluted it.

She leaves before he can say anything else.

4.

War is in her element.

World War Two rages, _rages_ all around her, and she’s so many places at once it’s amazing and kinda unbelievable. She knows the heavens are worried. She knows Hell thinks this is it. She knows she should be a lot happier with those endorsements. But she isn’t. It always seems to be missing something. The true scent of danger. This is not danger. This is not what she yearns for. She wants a drive down a fucking highway with the Horsemen, and Agnes Nutter’s book has promised it to her, and to everyone, so why ever are they so concerned? They know the end of the world’s gonna happen with the Anti-Christ, and she doesn’t think poor Lucifer has managed to get his dick in anyone (willing) yet. She sniggers around blowing a guy’s head off with her gun as she remembers just how pissy the Lord of the Underworld gets when someone calls him Samael. And Satan is such a dramatic name, dear God. Who even calls him that anymore? Ugh, she thinks, feeling political leaders argue in her blood. Press the fucking button, she urges, drop the one thing you’ve made that’s _interesting_, America. Blow those prissy tiny Japanese UP, DO IT!

And they do, bless their little hearts. Aww, how sweet.

Standing in the utter ruins of Nagasaki, in the exact spot the bomb has burst a millisecond ago, is such a rush. Awesome. The last time she felt this way was…she doesn’t quite remember. But thank God she feels this way again, because she does not know how she has managed to live without it. She breathes in the radiation, the poison with a smile on her lips, body turned into scarlet flames, ecstatic. Oh, better than any fuck she’s ever had. The inspiration for the atomic bomb is the maybe the best thing (a few more surprises in the old think-tank, though, she’s innovation personified, screw you, budding tech companies) she’s ever freely shared with the humans. Ahh, destruction. The dead lie around her like a sacrificial summoning circle, and she’s laughing and laughing and laughing as the waves pulse across the land, purging the land of life for humanity’s weak eternities. 

“Oh, baby, baby,” she sings into the air. She’d propose to this state of mind if she could—so unburdened, so joyously, completely, _her_. And then she clicks her heels on the bombed spot, a perverted Dorothy with her magical shoes of ruby flame, because she’s got places to be, countries to dismantle. They’re definitely not in Kansas anymore. She feels a pull, a magnetic pull, something larger than gravitation because she doesn’t ever have to follow gravitation, the laws of physics are so overrated. Oh, this has to be either Heaven or Hell, because no one can summon one of the Horsemen this way, except for the Metatron, God or bloody Satan. And she knows who this is, because Heaven’s magic would never be so damned showy.

“You called, _baby_?” Lucifer asks, sitting on his onyx throne (so predictable, really).

“Samael, old friend,” she replies warmly, watching the smallest of scowls fall over his perfect face, letting her eyes flash, “how have you been?”

“Dandy,” drawls the spoilt brat. Seriously. When you want to punish a child, you don’t give them malevolent power over the world, God. Locking them in a room for a day or so does the trick quite admirably, too. She’s going to gift Her a parenting guide.

“Why am I here?”

“You have always been very good at cutting to the chase, War,” laughs the Ghost King, twirling a pen? A riding crop? A knife? A magic wand? A syringe? It just keeps changing. Bloody illusions.

She bares her teeth. “Part of my charm.”

He does the same. Predators, both of them, so much better than the rest of the world. A human would call them frenemies. She just thinks they are very, very similar—what with the fires of Hell in both of their eyes, the I-could-eat-you-whole-without-even-tipping-a-scale-off-my-regular attitude, and the fact that they’re both inhumanly gorgeous. It ends there. (She likes to tell herself that, but if Lucifer had been female, they would probably have been the same, it’s so close.)

“I’m thinking of becoming a redhead like you,” he tells her, “Thoughts?”

“You’ve rebelled enough, punk kid,” she answers flatly, “wouldn’t work with your complexion, and you know it, so don’t even try.”

“But you get all the ass,” he pouts, mock-disappointed.

“That’s because I’m me, darling. Stop this. I know when you’re beating around the bush. I’m busy, in case you aren’t paying attention.”

“But I’m never paying attention.”

“There’s a really pretty fist fight going on up there,” she whispers, making her eyes wide and sad and as close to innocent as she can get, “so I really have to watch. Be quick. Whine.”

“I’m in love,” says the infernal brat, sprawled across his throne obscenely, too much flesh on display.

“Oh, fuck off,” she says.

“No, really.”

“With who, you bloody idiot?”

“You do not need to know.”

“Alive or dead?”

“Dead, of course, I have a brain.”

“Could’ve fooled me, champ.”

“Oh, shut up,” Satan snaps, sounding like a twelve-year-old. Business as usual, then.

“Why am I here?” She asks again.

“I want advice.”

“Ask your fucking mother,” she snaps, and wow, she makes bad decisions, but he only glares at her. Love, she guesses, it’s made him soft.

“I would, if only she’d talk to me. Turns out, God—not all that merciful.”

“Well, you did try to stage a revolution in her own fucking house, after all. Wasn’t even a good one. If you were my kid, you’d be dead when I saw the first draft of your rough plan.”

He changes the subject, obviously. “Are you sure you have no advice to give me?”

“Look, kiddo.” He takes in a deep, offended breath, but she doesn’t care; it’s true. She’s been here for far longer than he has. “I’m War, okay? I know absolutely nothing about the finer emotions, unless you’re talking about sex. Fucking, not making love and other Valentine’s Day bullshit. If this is you calling me because I’m the female quota of the Four Horsemen, you’d be better of calling literally anyone else. Famine, maybe. He falls in love with every single malnourished child, because he has serious issues. Pollution talks lovingly about Plastic if you pour half a bottle of wine in him. Death fell in love with the meteor that scrapped the dinosaurs a long time ago. But me? Nothing. No one. Sometimes I think it’s an issue, maybe I’m wrongly wired.”

She smiles, and it is actually kind this time, because he’s a kid. He’s adorable. And he’s fallen in love. Maybe she now has another relationship to obsess over other than that of Aziraphale and Crowley. (It’s literally been all of eternity, and they haven’t kissed even once. How oblivious do you have to be for that?)

“But I’m me. And I’m just fine being crazy. All the advice War has to give to you is: don’t get hurt. Don’t lose.”

And before this conversation can stretch any longer and she can reveal even more of herself, she leaves, and for some reason, he lets her.

5.

HNNGHK, Death groans, pressing her up against a dirty wall in a falling building, and she wonders how his face looks like when he comes. It’s okay to be in a sexual relationship with a pretty-much-permanently hooded guy, but sometimes it just gets weird. Whatever, he’s really good at this. She arches her back and moans, long, loud and obscene, and she hears the screams outside multiply. He leaves bruises on her thighs where he grips her, and she’s feeling it after a long time, because humans don’t really manage to do that. It’s not their fault, the poor things. They do the best with what they have.

They’ve been doing this for a long, long time, pretty much since the world started, because they enhance each other. Without any fatalities, the entire thrill of a fight is gone, and War contributes the most out of the Horsemen to Death. A human would say they’re in a mutually beneficial relationship, but they aren’t humans. She feels a bead of sweat makes its way down her neck. It’s already been well-established that humans know absolutely nothing. Her colleague comes with a startled jolt that turns him insubstantial for a second, like she managed to put him on another plane of existence. He still fucks into her until she does, glowing with fire under her skin, not silent like Death. War is never silent. She comes with the scream of bombs and cannon-fire, of worlds ripping apart.

They detangle pretty quickly—she’s never been one for cuddling and he has a lot of work to do. She gets up, panting inaudibly, but he hears, and she can feel his amusement washing over her. She glares down at him, hands on her hips, and begins to put her red leather back on. He gets up to help her with some couple hundred of the tiny straps and buckles, because he’s a gentleman.

I DO NOT KNOW WHY YOU CHOOSE TO WEAR THIS FABRIC MAZE, he tells her, adorable in his old-fashioned confusion. Were she a human woman or man, she would love him for that statement alone.

“It got you to fuck me that way, so I think my fashion choices are justified,” she purrs. She feels his smoky fingers fidget along her back, pulling leather tight against skin, almost erotic were it not a wholly practical practice.

I WOULD DO THAT EVEN IF YOU WORE ANOTHER HUMAN’S SKIN OR COMFORTABLE CLOTHES, he admonishes, I WOULD ALWAYS BE ATTRACTED TO YOU.

“Aw, Prince Charming,” she drawls. “You only screw me for the corpses my cause gives you.”

AND YOUR SMELL, adds Death, bending to strap up her stilettos. It’s a very _boyfriend_ activity. It gives her the creeps.

“That’s kinky,” she points out, because she has nothing else to say. It would probably be something rough and caustic and not-good. She likes this arrangement. It keeps her bloodlust fed, so why would she disturb it?

IT IS THE TRUTH, he shrugs, moving to stand (float?) in front of her, CALL IT WHAT YOU WISH.

“You’re being very nice today,” she sighs finally, “what’s the bloody matter?”

He fidgets, visibly shifting from one side to another. She raises an eyebrow.

IT’S BEEN ETERNITY, he answers finally, AND YOU HAVE NOT CHANGED.

This bullshit again? From fucking Death? “Oh no, you can’t give me that when you’re the one constant in the world, Death.”

I MEAN YOUR FEELINGS.

“What do you have to do with my feelings, old boy? I’m sorry if you feel neglected, but I was in Costa Rica. The beaches are nice this time of the year. So are the bikinis.”

YOU DON’T LOVE, I KNOW. BUT HAVE YOU TRIED? His tone has turned somewhat pleading and she resists the urge to scream.

“Romance is not a bloody necessity, honey. It’s really not. Do you love me?”

THAT WOULD BE TELLING, SENORITA.

She grins at that.

“You are terrible. I don’t know—I’m just fine without love. Not being edgy here. It makes my skin crawl.”

MAYBE YOU JUST HAVEN’T FOUND THE ONE.

She shoves at him.

OR MAYBE YOU ARE AROMANTIC.

She smiles up at him. “What’s that?”

SEXUALITY IS A SPECTRUM, YOU KNOW THAT, RIGHT?

“Yeah, I watched Love, Simon.”

I DON’T REALLY KNOW HOW TO EXPLAIN THIS TO YOU. BUT, SOME PEOPLE, AND/OR CELESTIAL BEINGS, MIGHT NOT FEEL ROMANTIC LOVE. AND THAT’S PERFECTLY ALL RIGHT.

She feels a weight leave her chest, her throat. If she were human, she would cry. There’s a word for this? There are other people like her? She isn’t alone? She wants to hug him.

“Honey…”

I KNOW YOU WORRY THAT YOU’RE UNNATURAL. BELIEVE ME, YOU’RE NOT. I JUST WANTED TO TELL YOU THIS. YOU ARE VALID.

“You sound like a fucking therapist.”

MAYBE YOU NEED ONE.

“Oh, you’re in no position to criticize mental health.”

I GO TO A REALLY NICE PERSON. SHE’S A FRIEND OF MINE.

“Everyone is a friend of yours, baby.”

I CAN GIVE YOU HER ADDRESS IN HEAVEN. SHE WAS A JEW. SURVIVED THE WAR, LIVED A LONG LIFE AFTER. DIED OF OLD AGE.

“I don’t need a therapist. Did you know Famine and Pollution want to do something else other than be the Horsemen of the Apocalypse?”

Death sighs, LET THEM.

“What?”

THEY WANT SUSTENANCE, NOURISHMENT. A DIFFERENCE IN THEIR IMMORTALITY. LIESEL SAYS THAT CHANGE IS PERFECTLY HEALTHY. TO BE ENCOURAGED.

“Your therapist?”

YEAH.

“She sounds cool.”

SHE IS, BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT. STOP BEING A PROTECTIVE MAMA BEAR TO FAMINE AND POLLUTION. AND ME. HELL OR HEAVEN ISN’T GOING TO SMITE US JUST BECAUSE WE CHOOSE TO HAVE FUN TOGETHER. I’M PRETTY SURE THE ANTI-CHRIST, THAT KID ADAM, WILL EVEN APPROVE. HE’S FUN THAT WAY.

“Are you sure I’m…aromantic?”

I HAVE STUDIED HUMANS, BOTH DEAD AND ALIVE, FOR FOREVER. I WAS BORN WHEN THE FIRST STAR BLINKED INTO EXISTENCE. I KNOW STUFF, GIRL.

“Grandpa.”

YOU SAY THAT LIKE YOU’RE ANY YOUNGER. YOU OWE APOLOGIES TO FAMINE AND POLLUTION, YOU KNOW, FOR SCARING THEM. IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE A SINCERE ONE, BUT SAY IT ANYWAY. JUST FOR THE AESTHETIC.

“You really sound like a grandpa, Grandpa.”

He shoves at her. SHUT IT, PIPSQUEAK.

This is relief. She feels relieved. She wants to sing. Maybe a small on the border dispute.

“Hey, by the way, I won the bet.”

WHAT BET? Death cocks a hooded head at her, playing ignorant.

“The bet about Samael not staying in love for more than half a century. I can’t believe you thought it would last.”

I’M A ROMANTIC, SUE ME, he says loftily, the moron.

“So, what do you owe me?”

FINE, he sighs. I’LL TALK TO GOD. CROWLEY AND AZIRAPHALE WILL GET MARRIED IN LESS THAN A YEAR AND I’LL TELL HER TO BLESS THE WEDDING SO THAT ALL OF US CAN ATTEND. IT’LL BE A PARTY.

“I want Lucifer there too.”

YEAH, OF COURSE YOU CAN GET YOUR TWIN. REMEMBER THE—

She leaves before he can entrap her for another fuck, or worse, another bet. She’s got an evening dress to purchase for a wedding.

+1.

“You can kiss the demon,” announces the Metatron, and the ground erupts in cheers. Everyone, heavenly or not, ships Crowley and Aziraphale. Loath as War is to admit it, efficient peace treaties can be signed because of it. Thank Hell no one here’s had that bright idea. Across the room, Lucifer raises a champagne flute to the couple in a salute. Crowley is dipping Aziraphale and she feels something contented settle in her stomach. Ah, being a fangirl.

There’s confetti everywhere, and War puts a hand over her glass so that it doesn’t fall in, pops a chocolate covered strawberry in her mouth. She watches people crowd around the newly-weds—Newton and Anathema Pulsifer, Adam and his gang of all and sundry, all grown-up, the ghosts of Shadwell and Mrs. Tracy hovering around them. The food is heavenly, the alcohol content of the champagne devilishly high. She loves it.

The wedding is beautiful: white and black accents everywhere. It’s held in St. James’ Park, near the duck pond, as she though it would be. The after-party is at the Ritz; they have taste. Pollution nudges her shoulder, sighs contentedly, looks like she feels.

“Finally,” he says.

FINALLY, Death echoes. This is the first time he can actually enjoy a party in ages. Thank fuck she won that bet and made God bless this wedding.

“Finally,” Famine finishes, dressed in a sharp silver suit that is really very good tailoring.

“Where did you get that from?” She asks.

“McQueen, who else,” he answers distractedly, “You’ll go first to greet the happy couple, okay?”

They’re at the Ritz when she finally gets the chance to do so, dress swirling around her ankles like liquid gold. The couple has been blessed and damned affectionately by the parties of Hell and Heaven both, and congratulated by their human friends. Now it’s time for War, who is none of the three. But still one of the Four Horsemen—and she gets what she wants, and what she wants is to congratulate, damn and bless the happy couple. Crowley looks at her over the tops of his signature sunglasses and excuses himself and Aziraphale from whoever they’re talking to.

“Hello, Ms. Carmine Zuigiber,” Crowley grins and she ignores him, “got our wedding Heaven-blessed, did you?”

She ushers them into a private sitting room and says, “Finally, dumbasses.”

Crowley holds a hand up but she swipes it aside.

“I have been waiting for this wedding since the Garden, let me enjoy it. Do you know just how many favors I had to pull to help you get your heads out of your asses? You’ve made me soft, both of you.”

They smile at each other, besotted, all through her rant. They look like they’ve been married forever. Ew.

“How does it feel?” She asks in the end, because she needs to know if she’s done something right.

“Wonderful,” answers Aziraphale, because he’s the angel and thus better at emotions. “We’re very thankful.”

“It’s very sexy, saying husband,” Crowley adds, lacing his fingers through Aziraphale’s, and she fights the urge to coo.

“Have you tried the Malbec?” Aziraphale asks, because he has manners.

“No, we’re all going to get roaring drunk a bit later, and we need something stronger than that. Come to our table if you want it—Death brewed it himself, with help from Uriel. It’s bound to be strong.”

“Aren’t we all just getting together?” Crowley smirks, sprawling where he’s sitting, his black boots shiny.

“Yeah, well,” War grins, knowing she’s going to tell a secret, “everyone wanted this to happen. We were getting pretty desperate. Some even suggested to lock you both in a ring shop till one of you proposes.”

“Like Seven Minutes In Heaven,” the demon laughs, looking thoroughly tickled.

“Oh dear God,” Aziraphale smiles, “I daresay that would’ve worked.”

“Don’t you say that to dear Lucifer, that was his idea.”

“Oh, hell,” says Crowley, “you can’t mean—”

“Yes,” she says idly, filing her blood-red nails with a knife, “your boss is a closet romantic, flower petals, candles and all. You know the drama queen called me back from Hiroshima because he had love issues?”

Crowley looks delighted. “You don’t have to give us a wedding gift.”

The angel coughs. “How is your reinvention going?”

“Yeah,” she answers, “not bad at all. I’m sorry I was late to the coming-out party you guys threw for me, there was a situation in Pakistan.”

Aziraphale waves it off. “Nonsense, we weren’t expecting you to. We were just happy that you figured yourself out and were proud of it, and felt comfortable enough to tell. It’s a brave step, you know.”

“I do,” she says, “thank you. You, in particular, were a lot of help, Aziraphale. Death just gave me a very vague explanation because he’s like that, the idiot.”

“Are you guys still—” ventures Crowley delicately. She laughs.

“It’s on and off, nothing serious. He got over it. Even managed to get someone substantial in between.” 

“You’re happy?”

“Yes, thank you for asking. I am perfectly satisfied. Now.”

“Ugh, fine, sorry for taking so long. I just…wasn’t sure if Angel over here would agree.”

“You utter fool,” Aziraphale and War say together.

Crowley and Aziraphale start bickering, and she sips at her wine, in no hurry to leave, for once. She’s got places to be and people to kill, yes, but it can wait. It all can wait.

Because she’s happy.

(Or getting to it, anyway.)

**Author's Note:**

> I just really like War from Good Omens, and felt that there wasn't nearly enough fic about her and the other Four Horsemen. Also, I got to write about the wedding...so it's an absolute win for me.
> 
> The lines Pollution quotes are from 'Sweater Weather' by The Neighborhood.  
Death's therapist is Liesel Meminger from 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak.


End file.
